Thank you for your submission of
2357.3 to the Galactic Art Fair, which I have reviewed with great diligence.
Before we can proceed I must share a few observations.

Earth’s visual art appears to be
limited to a narrow spectrum between 380 and 700 nm. We appreciate this is the
range of human vision. But certain other species on your planet have wider
ranges. Elsewhere in the galaxy great works of visual art have been created in
the ultraviolet and infrared. The Darques of Krox Prime can even see high
frequency microwaves, and the Grokkles of Xithkort prefer to view images of
their naked females with gamma rays.

The Ipnits of Gibberkyrdz 7 (not the
Gibberkyrdz 7 in Sector 23, the other one) do not see in your range at all. To
them, Roy G. Biv might as well be Roy Rogers—himself a curious example of Earth’s
dramatic arts. We feel your restricted employment of the electromagnetic
spectrum represents an arbitrary prejudice against other species, not only
throughout the galaxy, but also on your very own planet.

Butterflies enjoy colors too, Dr.
Brinkman. Frogs even enjoy them in the dark.

Why the persistent employment of
low-level technology? Where are the holograms? The time warps? The telepathic
stimulation of ancillary gonads? Well, not so much the latter, in the case of
your species at least, but you get my point.

The jury fails in particular to
understand the static nature of Earth’s art, and it cannot fathom why
Earthlings believe the older a work is, the more valuable. Most of it is
two-dimensional, some is three-dimensional, but there is nothing in your
submission that is higher. I should also point out that your species is
peculiarly obsessed with mammary glands.

Your so-called modern art makes
extensive use of complementary colors, as though this is some sort of
achievement. Orange is the complement of blue. Hooray. The Eep! Eep! species
capitalized on this knowledge eleven galactic rotations before your star
formed. (I interviewed them once, but “Eep! Eep!” is all they had to
say on the subject.)

We found some of your literature to
be of value. Shakespeare, for instance. Certain spoken word artists, like Snoop
Dogg. On the other hand, James Joyce was quite a consternation to the jury. And
please explain: are whales and legless sea captains ordinarily at odds with
each other? Is it normal on Earth to hang black cats in gardens?

Music appears to be nothing more to
you than fluctuating sound frequencies. Dance nothing more than organisms
moving their limbs. Drama nothing more than people pretending to be other
people. You erect structures whose purpose it is to keep precipitation from
landing on your heads—and you call that art? Pottery too? Ashtrays, for Gorf’s
sake?

Finally, we fail to understand what
you call “reality television,” especially telecasts featuring the man
with the orange face and urine-stained hair, propped up as an imitation world
leader for the amusement of your proletariat. Really, Dr. Brinkman, is this the
best your culture can offer?

I’m sorry, but your application for
exhibitor space at the Galactic Fair is disapproved. Try again next time, in
what will be 244 of your planet’s revolutions.

I hope to see you then.

————

Stephen Parrish’s short work has appeared in The Austin Review, The MacGuffin, Boston Literary Magazine, The Good Men Project, and elsewhere, and has been read in public by Liars’ League, Lit Crawl, and other venues. He’s the editor of The Lascaux Review.